Mercenary Road (16 page)

Though Stanza saw a streak of black light zipping toward her, she couldn’t do anything to stop it. Taking D’s dagger deep in the left side of her chest, she leapt away some ten feet, and then fell to the floor.

D calmly walked over to where his longsword lay on the floor and picked it up.

Stanza was now standing up ahead. She had her right arm raised for a throw.

“How can this be? The way I am now . . . I thought I’d be able to take you . . . But you’re not the same, either . . . are you?” she said, taking odd, dancelike steps as she backed away. The darts fell from her right hand, and then her arm came down as well. As if chasing the echoes of the metallic projectiles hitting the floor, Stanza fell on her side.

As D stood stock still, her final words flowed into his ears.

“But you’re the same . . . as I am . . . now.”

And now that she’d breathed her last, he raced past her with sword in hand, a black whirlwind.

—

Grand Duke Dorleac’s destination was the chemical research facility that’d been constructed underground. The sole fruit of his labors remained there: a tightly sealed golden tank filled with gas. The grand duke’s intent was nothing short of opening the valve and letting the gas spread over the world.

An egregious weakness assailed the Nobleman. The blood loss was affecting his internal organs. Though he somehow managed to muster his will, he couldn’t contain the chaos ravaging his body. The problem wasn’t the wound the sword had dealt him, but rather the power that’d poured into him with it. Just as Drago had said, the young man who called himself D was truly a fiend.

A crushing weight of chills rolled through him from head to toe. Desperately fighting them off, Dorleac took a seat in the control room and said, “It is I. Prepare to release the gas.”

A computerized voice replied, “I cannot comply at present. You will be notified after I’ve run a comparison.”

“Preposterous! I am the master of this house! What kind of comparison do you mean?”

“Baronet Drago alone is authorized for activities involving the gas. All other data has been purged. Only Baronet Drago himself or a blood relative of his may give the command.”

“Drago,” the grand duke began to say, gritting his teeth, “you fool! I’m trying to fulfill your wishes. Run that comparison, and be quick about it!” he shouted back at the voice.

“Very well,” was the response. In two different voices.

Turning, the grand duke found a figure standing before the door with a longsword in hand. However, that alone wouldn’t suffice to make a Noble show this much surprise.

“Are you human? No, I think not—”

“They call me Zenon. I’m a robber by trade. I spotted you as I was wandering down here.”

This couldn’t be. A Noble’s senses never failed to detect a person’s footsteps, their breathing, their very presence. Not if it were a human.

“Nobles are the living dead—and therefore they trump the living. But I wonder how they fare against the dead.”

Despair gripped the grand duke. Even a nearly mortally wounded Noble could knock a mere human opponent flat with one hand. However, this opponent was another matter. A thought suddenly flitted through Dorleac’s mind.
The living dead aren’t better than the living because they’re not truly alive. They aren’t better than the dead because they’re not truly dead.

Who’d he hear say that?

A fireball assailed his foe. His arms were up, holding his sword by the side of his head like a bat, but when the fiery sphere scored a direct hit over his heart, it didn’t spread, but rather it vanished. The grand duke was just about to move when Zenon swung his sword at the Nobleman’s neck. At the same moment, Dorleac’s finger pressed a tiny button. There was a good fifteen feet between them. The blade sliced air—but the grand duke’s neck was also cut. As bright blood gushed from Dorleac, Zenon charged toward him, making a precise thrust at his foe’s heart with his steel.

Sheathing his blade again without a word, the outlaw was just walking out the door when the grand duke’s severed head heard the computer say, “The comparison is complete. Now beginning preparations to release the gas.”

The preparations were also completed. But those who might’ve given the order to release it were gone forever.

—

A strange change took place in and around the castle. The number of troops had swelled dramatically, causing small skirmishes and frequently lopsided battles, but once a certain button had been pressed, all of this ceased. The second act Grand Duke Dorleac had lined up to follow the massacre by gas had succeeded. All the soldiers lost any sense of “rivalry” they’d had, leaving their brains filled with the thoughts
mobilize
and
slaughter
. And those two thoughts were strongly linked to a third thought:
humans
.

—

As Zenon made his way down the corridor, there was the sound of light footfalls growing closer. The lithe form didn’t attempt to hide, but rather launched itself at his chest with evident delight.

“So, you’re okay? I’m so glad!” Irene told him, and although anyone could be expected to say such a thing at a time like this, there was genuine emotion behind her words.

Zenon clumsily wrapped his arms around the girl’s back.

“What’s the deal with that hand?”

Before Irene could reply, the palm of the left hand appeared from the neck of her blouse, saying, “Hey, there!”

Zenon grinned. There was almost something wry about his smile. “Looks like a fun place to be,” he said.

“It’s the perfect place to hide,” the hand replied brazenly. It was wedged right between her sizable breasts.

“I slew the Noble. You should probably thank me, you know.”

There was a pause, after which the left hand asked, “You’re the sane one, right?”

“Don’t worry. He disappeared after slaying the Noble. Seems he put his whole heart and soul into it.”

“How do you know he slew him? You’re not supposed to have his memories, right?”

“After putting down the Noble, he was just leaving the room when I came back.”

“Hmm—so, how are you doing?”

“I’ll manage, thanks,” Zenon replied, nodding as he put his hand against his chest.

“Hmph! You’re lucky to have survived this long. Try your best not to blow it now.”

“Okay,” the outlaw replied.

A look of joy suffused Irene’s face.

It was at that moment that a dull shock reverberated through the ceiling.

“Ah, what’s this?” the left hand said, turning upward.

“An explosion?” Irene suggested, her brow furrowed.

Zenon shook his head, saying, “No, something came down. Really close, too.”

The three of them exchanged glances, and then headed for the great staircase they could see in the distance.

—

In less than three hours’ time, Beatrice had achieved satisfactory results. He never did learn where the treasure vault was, but the Nobles’ living rooms and parlors, libraries, and kitchens were all brimming with valuables. The candelabras and ashtrays he found were made of gold, and gem-encrusted knickknacks had been left all over the place. With all the wealth they could ever desire, the Nobility had grown weary of riches, and having no particular interest in them, they didn’t worry that anything might be stolen. Cramming things with one hand into a sack he’d brought along, the giant had finally reached the limit of what he could carry before he was able to convince himself to stop. Though it pained him to think of the victims they’d seen earlier, Beatrice told himself that swiping the Nobles’ property would help even the score.

He didn’t have to worry about making his escape. His notes stated that a single flying machine remained in a hangar out in the rear garden. Being one of the Nobility’s vehicles, it didn’t require a dedicated pilot. Voice commands would suffice. When he’d tried to get it going, the engine had started. Beatrice intended to fly it out of there. The flying machine was waiting even now.

Deciding to pull out, the giant was just leaving one of the living rooms when a terrible jolt reached him. Peering out the window, he saw a kind of airship burning in a corner of the grand garden, which could’ve passed for a city park. The craft was less than five hundred yards away.

“What the hell is this?” Beatrice said, setting down the sack he’d had over his shoulder and staring at the airship intently.

Leaving the loot there in decisive fashion, he headed for the door to the garden.

Next to enter the garden was D. A number of figures were approaching from the direction of the flames. In the lead was a familiar bearded face. He had one child on his back, and another in each arm. A little girl had her arms wrapped around his neck. Behind him was a boy who seemed slightly older than the others, and he too carried one child on his back while leading two others by the hand. Lagging in the rear was a uniformed figure who appeared to be the pilot, dragging one leg behind him. Before D could walk over to them, the group reached him.

“What the hell were you jokers doing?” Beatrice shouted.

The gigantic warrior didn’t seem winded, but the boy beside him set the girl down, braced his hands against the ground, and began gasping for air. His face looked familiar. It was the same boy Beatrice couldn’t take his eyes off back at the orphanage they’d visited at the beginning of the trip—Franco Gilbey.

—

III

—

Led by Beatrice, the group was ushered to the castle’s infirmary—although it would’ve been better to term it a full-scale hospital. The children mostly suffered from minor cuts and scrapes, and while the pilot had sustained burns to his face and the backs of his hands, he was in no danger of dying. Beatrice had learned that the teacher accompanying the children had been killed in the crash.

Just as the pilot was explaining how they’d been flying over the castle when the engines suddenly burst into flames, the sobs of the children who finally seemed to have recovered from their shock began to echo through the vast chamber.

“We’ve got real trouble now,” Beatrice said, and he meant two things. The first was the fact that supernatural soldiers were swarming outside. The second was that the flying machine could carry only five adults, or twice that many children. Either he or D was going to have to stay behind.

“There’s another way out,” D replied, his words cheering Beatrice greatly. D was referring to the passage that’d brought Irene and Zenon there. While they didn’t know how far it ran, it had to be better than remaining in the castle.

“That’s perfect,” said the gigantic warrior. “You should’ve told me about that in the first place!”

Just then, the building trembled once again with a dull vibration. This time it came from underground.

Turning to D, Beatrice said, “I have a really bad feeling about this.”

“Leave it to me,” D said, exiting the infirmary. Due perhaps to his dhampir blood, the wounds in his left arm had already healed halfway.

As D walked down the corridor, he saw changes in the castle around him. Dust billowed across the marble floors, the walls and ceilings decayed, and the terribly peeled paintings fell to the floor. The curtains were also on the floor, now reduced to dust. With the death of its two masters, the castle’s fleeting life was at an end—except for the malevolent will that resided in the subterranean computer room.

Starting down the stairs toward the underground passageway Irene had mentioned, the Hunter heard two pairs of footsteps galloping up from below. It was Irene, and behind her was Zenon.

“D!” Irene said, relief spreading across her face.

“The enemy?” D asked, having a good idea what’d happened.

Irene and Zenon nodded, while the hoarse voice replied, “Soldiers were coming up through the basement, so we had to blow it. You gotta love the Nobles’ castles. The place was rigged with explosives as part of its defenses.”

“This is no time for being smug,” Zenon said with disgust. “We can’t use that escape route anymore. By the way, the soldiers who came pouring in were a mixed band.”

“So, the two armies have joined forces?” asked the Hunter.

“Looks that way. The
other
me would probably know more about that. He slew Grand Duke Dorleac, but the Noble might’ve changed something before he died.”

“Where was the fight?” D asked Zenon.

“In some sort of research center down below.”

“How do you get there?”

“Go all the way down and take a right. Then it’s a left, and another left.”

“Take these two to the infirmary,” D said, his words directed toward Irene’s chest.

“Roger that!”

Without even waiting for that hoarse reply, D started down the broad staircase.

“I wonder if he’ll be okay,” Irene murmured dreamily, pressing her hand to her heart as her cheeks flushed.

“Let’s get going,” Zenon told her.

—

The Hunter soon found the research center. The automatic door didn’t open. The castle was already dead, and its power was cut off.

“So, that’s twice it’s died?” D murmured, but no one was there to reply.

A glint of moonlight seemed trapped in the blade of the Hunter’s sword. Hauling back his right arm, D gazed at the door—at the line where it met the wall, to be precise. Unleashed without a word, the streak of light slipped into that impossibly narrow gap. His sword buried halfway in the crack, D put all his weight behind it as he shoved to the right. His right arm seemed to bulge with the effort. But the door was slowly opening. Once it was open far enough for him to fit his hand in, D returned his longsword to its sheath and stepped closer to the door.

At that point he halted and turned around. In the distance, he saw Zenon coming down the corridor. Nevertheless, D put his right hand against the door and applied pressure.

A shot rang out. The bullet that struck the edge of the door ricocheted off without even scratching its surface.

D turned around.

Zenon drew his sword.

“Looks like that time has come, D.”

Saying nothing, D drew his own blade. This wasn’t the same simple fighting man he’d seen upstairs. This was a homicidal fiend out for blood. He wasn’t even human.

Madness and an unearthly air coalesced in the darkness. There was the sound of someone running toward them. D’s eyes reflected Irene. And while his attention was ever so briefly diverted, Zenon’s blade flashed into action. Narrowly managing to dash to the right, the figure in black’s right leg dripped bright blood as he dropped to one knee.

“Zenon, don’t!” Irene cried, her mouth open as far as it could go in her sweat-covered face.

“You were warned not to come,” the Zenon who wasn’t Zenon muttered, jabbing his sword straight behind him.

Even after dark blood gushed from her neck, Irene ran another five paces.

“Please . . . stop it . . .”

As her body fell, it sent so much blood out across the floor one had to wonder where it’d all come from.

Zenon didn’t even glance at her. He was looking at D, in accordance with the rules of combat.

“Stupid woman,” the outlaw said in a tone devoid of even an iota of sympathy for the girl at his feet. “She came here to protect you. Not that it would’ve done any good.”

“You’re right,” D replied. “Except the girl came here to protect
you
. And that wouldn’t have done any good.”

Zenon’s features twisted with madness, and he took the blade he had pointed straight at D and swung it toward the Hunter’s neck. But there was still fifteen feet between them.

D’s blade parried the blow. Unconsciously, Zenon laughed in his heart. His unseen blade wasn’t a physical attack: it was literally deadly intent that he unleashed. It would shatter even the best-forged sword.

No sooner did Zenon feel the blow being stopped than he saw D flying through the air, wearing the face of a Noble with his own blood on his lips. The horrifying face of a vampire. Forgetting to even counter, he stood there like a scarecrow as D’s sword sliced cleanly through him from the top of his head all the way down to his crotch.

As the Hunter fell to one knee between the halves of the bisected body, he heard a voice say, “Thank you . . . I go to my rest . . . as
myself
.”

It was Zenon’s voice. But
which
Zenon, no one could say.

“Am I too late?” the hoarse voice said in a vexed tone from D’s feet. It was pointing toward Irene’s corpse. “All of a sudden, that bastard Zenon nailed me to the floor with a dagger, and it was a pain in the ass getting free again. I told the girl not to go, you know.”

Saying nothing, D took Irene’s hands and folded them across her chest.

“While I was patching up Zenon, she was busy as a beaver helping me. Zenon was pretty brusque—but I think there was some empathy there, eh?”

Not replying, D turned toward the door to the research center. Off to the left, there was a commotion and the sound of countless feet coming like a mudslide.

Now reattached to the stump, D’s left hand said, “Did those clowns get the underground passageway open? Look out!”

Something was rolling from the same direction as the footsteps. A silver cylinder—and the instant D saw it, he dashed for the door. The blast and flames slammed him against the door. Though both the explosion and its flames still continued to spread, a heartbeat later they immediately shrank into a tight funnel, streaming into a tiny mouth.

“When I was taking care of Zenon, I drank the water in the storeroom,” said the hoarse voice. “Just now I got a belly full of fire and air. Fire, water, earth, and air—I guess I’ll have to do without the earth.”

D reached for the door. Though it weighed several tons, it glided open. Beneath that black raiment was a body imbued with inhuman strength.

Once the Hunter entered the room, his eyes gave off blood light as they focused on a certain point. The blue light that indicated activity in the machinery was flickering. That was the work of the button Dorleac had pressed as his final act.

“Here we go,” said the Hunter.

“Sure.”

D dashed over to the control panel, pressing his left hand to it above the light. A pale blue glow formed around his hand, and then flames spouted from the control panel.

“That takes care of that!”

As the hoarse voice spoke, D spun around. Figures were pouring through the doorway like smoke. There was a roar like thunder and gunshots, and crimson beams pierced D’s body.

The Hunter carved his way through the shadowy figures. Flesh was sliced, and bone was split. Blood sprayed without end. But no matter what it touched, the blade’s speed never changed. One after another the soldiers fell, and as they did, D steadily made his way back to the corridor that’d brought him there.

On reaching the door, the hoarse voice groaned, “What the hell?”

The vast corridor was packed with green and gray. Even for D, getting through them would be impossible—nearly. It would still take an extremely long time.

“Why haven’t they died? Was that Dorleac’s command?”

“Maybe we were mistaken. This could take a while,” the Hunter said, the icy sweetness of his voice not the least bit shaken.

“That machine was a lousy piece of junk!” D’s left hand groused, and as if stirred by its anger, the soldiers charged forward.

—

IV

—

“Are we in danger? When our ship was coming down, I could see from up there that some weird characters had the whole castle surrounded. What in the blue blazes is going on here?” the pilot asked, his voice quavering.

Finally turning both his attention and his gaze in the man’s direction, Beatrice said, “Stop your yammering. Act like a man and quit blubbering, or I swear I’ll slit your throat long before those clowns get a chance to. Look at that kid. He’s holding together about a thousand times better than you are.”

This was the same Hunter of Nobility who’d once left Stanza in awe. There was an intensity about him that cowed the pilot into silence.

Beatrice returned his gaze to the boy—Franco Gilbey. The boy was looking after the younger children, cheering them up and giving them someone to talk to. He was the ideal head of the group—both a leader and a friend. Their childish instincts picked up on the disquieting atmosphere, and though the children had been reassured time and again, they kept asking if they were going to be okay and if they’d make it back. But Franco never got cross, always telling them they’d be going soon and that they should just trust him. He even turned in Beatrice’s direction, saying, “I mean, doesn’t that guy look really tough? We’ll be fine, because we’ve got him on our side.”

That really struck a nerve with Beatrice, making him rather sheepish.

“Kid, how old are you?” Beatrice asked as he cautiously gazed out the window. About thirty minutes had passed since D had left.

“Thirteen,” the boy said, his reply as brisk as his movements.

“Is that a fact? You sure are a handsome cuss. I bet the girls go crazy over you, don’t they?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. So, what about you girls? Who’d like to be married to him?”

“Me! Me!” all four girls chanted, causing Beatrice to bug his eyes, then clutch his belly as he laughed.

“See, you’re gonna be a regular home wrecker when you grow up.”

“Huh?”

Beatrice hurriedly amended that, saying, “I mean, a real lady-killer. At any rate, be sure to give ’em hell.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy replied, with a look that said,
Just who is this guy?

Coughing, Beatrice asked, “So, er, do you remember what kind of guy your father was?”

“Not at all,” the boy replied flatly.

“Really? How about your mother?”

Looking down, the boy quickly said, “I don’t remember anything about her, either.”

“Oh, sorry I brought it up. I bet your mother was a real beauty. But your father was probably scum.”

“How do you know that?” Franco asked with sudden indignation. “How do
you
know my father was scum? You don’t even know him.”

“No, son—er, I mean, kid. But we’re talking about a guy who abandoned a great kid like you.”

“How do you know it was my father that gave me up? Maybe it was someone else.”

“Yeah, you have a point there,” Beatrice said, backpedaling. He couldn’t help but smile a little. “Well, then, what kind of guy do you think your father was?”

“A great one.”

“Really?”

“A man who was strong and kind. That’s all that matters. I don’t know anything about my father, but I think he must have been like that.”

“I see,” Beatrice said, folding his arms and shutting his eyes as he nodded pensively. Turning his back to the boy, he continued, “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. Your father must’ve been a man among men.”